8TRIGGER WARNING: I cannot overstate this enough. This story contains sex, drugs, rape, gore, language, suicidal ideation, questionable morality, and murderous intent. Some scenes like the one described in this chapter are graphic. The first chapter is in my opinion the most graphic. I tried to be tasteful (as possible) with my descriptions, but this story is irrevocably rated M. Per FF website guidelines, no descriptions of sex or sexual encounters are overly detailed in any way. You have been warned.
((For further comparison purposes, if any of you have read or seen The Kite Runner, the amount of detail given in KR's rape scene is roughly the same amount as the rape scene in my story. I read the Kite Runner when I was 14 and did not find it grossly descriptive.))
All the negatives laid bare, I've written about five chapters of this so far and it has been a blast. It just wouldn't be a demon AU without the bells and whistles.
Continue at your own caution.
Much love, doze
Alfred scrunches his nose, blowing out a puff of smoke through both nostrils and causing his usually responsible twin brother to snicker.
"Al, please," Matthew takes a drag of his own joint. "You're such an amateur."
Alfred rolls his eyes, flicking the offending stick away from himself. "You know, I don't like pot, Mattie. I can't believe you came all the way here just to smoke and make fun of my apartment." He gets up to open his window, letting the night sounds of New York City drift over them.
"You mean your shoe box?" Matthew laughs. "This room is smaller than my closet in Ottawa."
"Yeah, but who wants to live in fucking Ottawa?" Alfred snickers, his brain fuzzy. He stumbles over to the only semi-nice piece of furniture in his apartment, a glass desk rimmed in stainless steel. Flicking on the light, he reveals a massive pile of cartoon panels just waiting to be inked. He slips a Marlboro between his teeth, lighting it deftly. "You're gunna be bored anyway, dude. I have a project due tomorrow."
Matthew stands, leaning over him to check out Alfred's art work. "What's it this time?"
"Something my professor will hate," Alfred rolls his eyes. "A good-hearted piece about a boy developing a relationship with his long lost father who works for the CIA. Only a couple thousand great gun fights, and he still thinks that I should go darker."
Matthew smiles wryly, "Well, if I remember right you wrote your first full comic about a gang of flying horses."
"Unicorns don't fly, Matt." Alfred takes up his pen seriously. "Come on, Emmy loved that. I got into art school with that, too! So don't shit on it. I just like writing happy things. Everyone writes depressing junk these days."
"Your prof's probably just horny," Matthew smirks, touching one of Alfred's marked up pages from a few weeks ago. 'No Sex Scene?' is written in incredulous capitals.
"A sex scene between two fifteen year olds?" Alfred retorts grumpily. "Forgive me for not wanting to embarrass my poor boy Jackson like that. Hell knows, I would've drawn him realistic. Forgive me, but I don't know many fifteen year old boys with-"
"Ugh, Al, stop," Matthew wrinkles his nose. "You could write something more sensationalized. How are you gunna sell this stuff? You should write chick flick scripts."
"Fuck off," Alfred bends over his page in concentration. "Not my fault all you guys wanna be is depressed."
"We just want a good story." Matthew waves his joint in the air. "All your stuff's predictable, Al. The boy will find his dad. The couple will make up. The dog won't die. Don't you think it'd have more impact if something interesting happened?"
Alfred grunts noncommittally, already tuning him out. He's gotten by on his happy-go-lucky stories since he could walk. It's who he is. Sure, death happens, people break up, people kill. But he's writing a fiction story for goodness's sakes. He wants to give people the hope they want. Sure, real life has complications. But as for Alfred, he'll give the kids a hero to root for and a happy ending to cheer at.
Sometime late, Matthew falls asleep on Alfred's bed, but Alfred works on. Neatly inking the final draft. A pile of cigarette butts resides in his coffee mug, growing larger every hour. It's a habit he's been meaning to kick, but it's too easy to stop at Walgreens on his way to class. He lights the last one in the pack, rubbing at his bleary eyes. A quick glance at the clock and he winces. Four a.m. again? Alfred caps his pen and tosses it into the cup.
Standing creakily, he grabs his holey jacket from the hook and slips on his beanie cap. Matthew is still fast out and doesn't hear the jangling noise of the chain on Alfred's jeans. He has to tie his Converse at least three times before he gets it right. And even then, he can't really see in the dim light. Making sure he has his wallet, he hits the streets. About a ten minute's brisk walk will put him at the 24 hour pharmacy on the corner.
The streets are both deserted and full of the strange invisible people that only come out at night. Alfred keeps his head down against the chilly fall air. He supposes it's just a testament to his horrible lack of schedule that he's going shopping at four a.m. on a Wednesday night. It is his mother's birthday tomorrow, though. And he's always managed to buy a cheesy gift in the past.
He walks blissfully into the yellowed light and empty aisles. Grabbing a large pack of chocolates and a saxophone playing bear, complete with audio. As he rummages in his pockets for his debit card, he can't help but be tempted by the Marlboros and kill the rest of his paycheck on them. Hell knows he should be saving, but he can never stand thinking about student loans for long.
He gives a jerky nod to the cashier, stopping outside to light his cigarette. With his mission complete, he takes his time walking back. Unable to help thinking about what Matthew said about his stories. He's not too worried about finding work. Though, as an artist, it's a bit more complicated than just getting a degree and going for it. Alfred's always been talented with cartoons. His style is mature for his age, and many of his characters exude a certain humanity that makes them nearly lifelike. His professors have been trying to get him to write serious stuff for ages, but Alfred prefers to draw for younger adults. He's a sucker for the fantasy genre.
He almost wishes he had a cuter style. They might not bother him then. He's tried to lighten it before, but it always comes off wrong.
Alfred sighs, adjusting his beanie. It's really no big deal. He's heard it ever since-
His thoughts escape him for a moment as he catches a glimpse of something red down the alleyway. Something red down an alleyway... that can never be good. He stands still with his Walgreens bag in hand, squinting. Just his imagination? He should really keep walking, but...
A sudden gulp and then a nasty squelching sound root him to his place.
"Hello?" Alfred scowls at his own stupidity. He should go away.
He hears a rustle and then the undeniable thud of a body hitting the ground. Alfred doesn't stop to think, putting a hand out in front of him and moving carefully through the dark. "Hello? Are you alright? Hello?"
Remembering suddenly that he is the product of a technology age, Alfred grapples to find his iPhone and light up the place. The blinding flare of the flashlight causes him to stop and blink for a few minutes. The first thing he sees is the body. A man with long blonde hair is crumpled on the ground with what looks like a bloody chunk taken out of his shoulder. "Oh my god."
All Alfred can do is stare, feeling rather uncertain whether he's even in NYC anymore. He's never come across this sort of violence in this part of the city. There's been the occasional shooting or robbery. But this... is brutal.
A flicker of movement draws Alfred's eyes unwillingly upwards. He doesn't know what kind of human he expects to see, what kind of man would go to this much trouble. Crouched nearby with a hand on the adjacent brick wall, a young man with a bloody mouth watches him impassively. His eyes are a scary arsenic emerald green. Alfred doesn't think he's ever seen a human with that eye color. A shock of red hair flutters around his face in the wind. He looks like he hasn't moved in centuries; he's so still.
"Wh-wha, did you do this?" Alfred waves to the slouching man. His voice is nearly silent but it sounds so loud in the enclosed space. Alfred can't even hear the city anymore.
Just like that, the red headed man darts.
"Hey!" Alfred cries out. "Wait! Come back." He throws down his Walgreens bag and runs down the alley. He doesn't know what he'll do if he catches the man. But the police or somebody should hear about this. This guy needs to be placed in a mental asylum, for fuck's sake.
He can just see the man in front of him, running almost gracefully fast. It seems to take him no effort as he hurdles overturned trash cans and dodges boxes. Alfred bulldozes his way through on adrenaline because through the dark he can just see the end. A dead end, to be precise. The man is still running, but he has nowhere to go.
Alfred grits his teeth. The other guy isn't slowing down. What? Does he expect to leap through the wall?
Just as the redhead is about to smash into the bricks he jumps. Alfred gapes in disbelief as the man clings to the bricks like a rock climber. Alfred puts on another desperate burst of speed reaching out to grab a cord that hangs down from the man's pants. If he can just...
Alfred crashes into the wall, giving the cord a hard yank. The whole side of his face scrapes painfully across the bricks, but for a moment he feels the weight of the other man on the other end of the... fuzzy cord? Alfred doesn't have time to think about it before a triangle, spade-like shape whizzes through his fingers and slices his cheek open. He screeches in surprise, dropping to his butt and letting the man get away. His cheek is on fire, like someone had pressed salt into the wound.
"You shouldn't have done that." A cold, apathetic tone makes Alfred jump.
He looks slowly upwards from his spot slouched in the alley to find the redhead man standing before him and licking his fingers.
"What? Is that a... tail?" Alfred wonders wildly if Matthew's secondhand pot is still affecting him after all these hours. What the hell is going on?
"And he can talk. What else can he do?" The man kneels in front of him, reaching out to grab his chin. His nails are overly long and sharp, painted black. Or naturally black? Alfred is forced to meet his blinding eyes. They're narrowed into animalistic slits. He runs his tongue over his lips, swiping away the last traces of blood. "Can he sing?"
Alfred starts to demand what the hell the guy wants, but the man shoots his hand forward, somehow pushing all five of his fingers through Alfred's shirt, through his skin, and into his stomach. He screams in pain, but mostly in shock. To see the man's fingers buried inside him up to the bend of his fingers.
"Oh, he can. Lovely." The man sounds perfectly bored. "I'd love if it if you sang for me all night long, Alfred. You have such a beautiful voice."
"How did you know my-
His words are cut off by a groan as the man yanks his fingers out.
"Look at me when you're talking, dear." He murmurs, taking Alfred's chin with his bloodied hand. Parts of Alfred's skewered intestines are stuck in his nails. "Come now, you know of my kind. You always have. Hush, I think that's enough talk. Sing for me." His slender finger passes back and forth in front of one of Alfred's eyes before Alfred hears the sickening squelch and his vision blinks out in blinding pain.
He can hardly hear himself screaming, but he knows he must be. When the man removes his nail, Alfred can only see him from one side. He doesn't even want to imagine what his left eye looks like right now. So is this how he's going to die? Tortured by some fruit loop in the city streets?
"Get away from me," Alfred growls weakly, kicking out but missing him. The redhead's incredibly strong hands are seconds away. He doesn't think he'd be able to escape even if he tried.
"So he can talk and he can sing. But can he help me? That's the real question." The man licks his lips again. "I hadn't planned on dessert, but how can I refuse when you've come right to me. Such hospitality you humans have."
You humans have...
"D-demon," Alfred gasps, not sure where the knowledge comes from. But it has to be true. Some instinctive part of him knows it. His memory flashes to horrible dreams he used to have in his old house, his father opening the door to come and play with him while everybody else slept, the horrible groaning noises that his parents told him he was imagining in the closet.
"Ah, I told you, you'd remember." He remarks carelessly. "Now, I promise this will only hurt worse than anything you've ever felt. But after this you won't feel anything at all."
"Wait, wait," Alfred gasps, beginning to feel genuinely frightened as the demon loses his apathetic manner to a widening smirk. His teeth are slick with some kind of black saliva. "What are you doing?"
"What do you think I'm doing? I'm eating your soul." The demon cackles madly, reaching out to hold his cheek in mock sympathy. "Shame. Such a pretty face. I do try to spare the pretty ones now and then. I shouldn't be mad if you would like a last go before I take it." His clawed hand closed suddenly around Alfred's trousers, pumping him and causing him to gasp in shock.
The lust is evident in the green of his eyes. It simmers there until it becomes positively boiling. And Alfred knows the demon wouldn't have bothered to heed his protests anyway. His pants are yanked down unceremoniously and without much ado he feels the force of it. He claws at the demon's neck to keep himself from falling over. It's only painful and hardly pleasant. His head swims dangerously like he might pass out. But he figures with a large measure of detachment that he'd at least like to be conscious for the death of his soul.
When the demon is finished he shoves him off, zipping up his own trousers and crouching to look.
"Can't I do anything about this?" Alfred moans, trying to pull up his pants and maintain himself some dignity. "Aren't you supposed to offer me a deal before you take my soul?"
"Now, why would I do that when I could just take it?"
"That's so unfair," Alfred gasps, trying to hold himself together. The black is beginning to encroach further upon his vision. "Why do you even want it?"
The demon's bloodied fingers grasp his face again. His dirty smile swims in and out. "You wouldn't understand."
"What if... maybe I... I could be useful," Alfred's mind races and he can't believe what he's saying.
"Useful, dear me." The demon smirks. "I'll do it quick."
Alfred flinches. "But what if I could help? What if I could get you souls?"
"Like I need your help. You're such a funny pet. How brave of you to say that in your position."
"You wouldn't have to do any work," Alfred pleads. "If you let me go, I'll bring them to you. You wouldn't have to do anything."
When the demon doesn't speak, Alfred holds his breath, wondering if his begging could actually result in anything. "You would bring them to me?" The demon licks his blackened teeth a swirl of black saliva moving about his mouth. He appears to consider, before he smirks. "You would not be able to keep up with my appetite."
"Try me," Alfred gasps, because it's all he can think to say.
"Such a pretty pet," the demon murmurs thoughtfully, tracing his claws gently across Alfred's battered cheeks. His soft manner dissipates just as quickly as it appeared. He stands and kicks Alfred squarely in the ribs, causing him to see stars. "Two a day and no less. I will find you, boy. If you fail me, I will make it hurt. On purpose. And that would be so much worse." He smiles toothily. "You have until this time tomorrow."
"Wait," Alfred holds his torso. "Wait... what's your name?"
"If you wish to know it, make yourself useful." The demon doesn't turn back as he walks away. His black tail, devoid of all color, flicks lazily behind him as he saunters off. He steps out of the alleyway without a care as to who sees him. Alfred thinks that he must have gotten himself into quite a mess. Some good person he claims to be... Now he's selling souls to the devil for the salvation of his own. Alfred drops his head back against the bricks and feels the tears hot on his face.
"This is why I write good stories," He whispers desperately. "This is why I write good stories."
Any support is much appreciated.